


from tender stem hath sprung

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Christmas, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mary? Who's Mary, post-series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:33:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8725729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: A few days before Christmas, a sprig of mistletoe appears in 221B.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I set this story at Christmas 2016, assuming that the tarmac scene took place in January 2015. It’s about a year after John moves back in with Sherlock. What happened to Mary, you may ask? Who knows. Who cares. She’s gone, that’s all you need to know.
> 
> Thanks so much to Tenaya and Darcy for the beta. You guys rock.

The mistletoe appeared a few days before Christmas.

John came down the stairs after noon, feeling groggy and a bit cranky, because they had been up until almost dawn finishing a case. Sherlock was sitting on the living room floor, his curly head bent over some papers. John glanced at him briefly as he shuffled into the kitchen and put the kettle on, then leaned against the counter, his chin resting on his chest. He was really getting too old for running around London until the early hours of the morning, and his body was letting him know it. He contemplated whether he should just go back to bed. They had nothing else on, and it wasn’t like he had to go to the surgery anymore.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who hadn’t acknowledged his presence, and his eyes caught on a small object hanging from the beam that separated the kitchen from the salon.

He frowned, moving toward the living room, pausing just before he reached the dividing line between the two rooms. There was no mistaking it: a large sprig of mistletoe— _real_ mistletoe—had been attached to the beam.

“Sherlock.”

“Hmm?” Sherlock didn’t look up as he moved another piece of paper to a pile.

“What is that?”

“What’s what?”

John jabbed his finger up at the mistletoe. “ _That_. Stop playing dumb.”

Sherlock glanced up briefly, then back down at the newspaper clipping he was holding. “Oh. It just sort of…happened.”

John sighed in exasperation. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mrs. Hudson was talking about how we need a more festive atmosphere for the party. I assume she put it up.”

John narrowed his eyes. At Mrs. Hudson’s urging, they had acquiesced to hosting a Christmas Eve party at their flat, something they hadn’t done since the Irene Adler incident. They already had put up a lot of decorations; Sherlock had rescued a small tree that had been put outside in the garbage, which they had decorated together, and John had put lights up everywhere. But Mrs. Hudson had still insisted on putting up mistletoe? 

John felt irrationally pissed off about it. It wasn’t as if he would be kissing anyone under said mistletoe, including the only person he wanted to kiss: the person who was currently sitting on the living room floor.

He had never loved someone this much, and that realization had been terrifying and immobilizing. Even though he had been back at Baker Street for a year, even though he was committed to staying with Sherlock for the rest of his life, he couldn’t have…everything. To be sure, there were more casual touches than there had been before—Sherlock sometimes lay his head in John’s lap, or casually tangled their feet together while they watched bad telly—but nothing seemed to indicate that Sherlock wanted anything _more_. John was willing to take whatever Sherlock would give him, even if that meant maintaining the status quo.

John had essentially resigned himself to having “everything but”— that is, everything he would want in a relationship, other than kissing and sex. In every other way, Sherlock was his partner. He had come so close to losing him three different times that he was afraid to ask for more. He’d watched Sherlock die, he’d married someone else, he'd watched him march off to certain death. The thought of not having Sherlock in his life made him ache deep down, like the chasm of grief he’d felt after Sherlock had jumped. That fear was illogical, he knew, yet he couldn’t risk losing Sherlock again.

But the mistletoe, in their own flat…it was too much. It mocked him, rankled him, made his skin prickle. It was a reminder of what he wanted but couldn’t have.

“I can practically hear the wheels turning,” Sherlock remarked, breaking John’s reverie.

“I just…I had completely forgotten about the bloody party,” John grumbled. 

“I think she may have had an ulterior motive for the mistletoe.”

John felt his cheeks burn, just a bit. “Ulterior motive?” he managed.

Sherlock shrugged again. “It’s possible that she’s hoping Molly and Greg will finally have the nerve to…you know.”

“Oh.” Greg had had his eye on Molly for what felt like eons, but he still hadn’t asked her out, despite the fact that his divorce had been final for some time.

Sherlock nodded, looking back at the paper in front of him, resting his chin on his bent knee. The dust-moted winter sunlight filtered into the room, glinting off his dark hair, and he looked very young. The years that had been added to his face, the tiny crow’s feet and worry lines, seemed to melt away. John felt his heart squeeze, just a little, and he wished he had the nerve to walk over and brush his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, to massage his scalp.

After a few seconds, Sherlock looked up at him, apparently oblivious to John’s thoughts. “You do realize that the kettle is ready?” he prompted.

John cleared his throat slightly, realizing the kettle had been whistling. He turned back to the kitchen and poured the water.

When the tea was ready, he poured himself a cup and walked back out of the kitchen toward the hallway, avoiding the mistletoe altogether.

“Bring me some,” Sherlock called.

“Get it yourself,” John snapped over his shoulder. He trudged back up to his room and closed the door, a bit more forcefully than was necessary, spilling some of his tea.

He leaned back against the door, sighing. The mistletoe shouldn’t make him so angry; it was a stupid tradition, anyway. Who said that you had to kiss someone just because they were standing underneath a plant?

Yet, he couldn’t help thinking about Sherlock inadvertently standing under the mistletoe. John imagined catching him, sliding his hands around his hips, maybe kissing him briefly. Maybe Sherlock would take it as a joke, maybe it would mean nothing to him, but if John was able to kiss him, just once…to feel his lips, his breath, his tongue, the silk of his shirt under John’s fingertips…

John banged his own head against the door. He needed to snap out of it; going down that road, even in his imagination, was pointless. He could manage to avoid going through the kitchen into the living room until after Christmas Eve.

 

 

* * *

Christmas Eve arrived. Sherlock had been in a bit of a mood ever since the day the mistletoe appeared, which John assumed was simply because no good cases had come up. By midafternoon on the day of the party, Sherlock was still in his pyjamas and blue silk robe, curled up on the sofa, facing the back. 

“They’ll be here in three hours, you know,” John said.

“Hmph,” Sherlock huffed, not looking at him.

“I’m going to the shops to pick up some more wine,” he called over his shoulder.

“Hmph,” he heard as he went down the stairs. He poked his head into Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

“Need anything?” he asked, looking around the disaster that was once her kitchen. It appeared like she was cooking for an entire regiment, rather than the handful of people they actually called friends.

“Oh, thank you, John, I need a couple more things,” she said, grabbing a pad and scribbling a few items down. “Here,” she said, handing it to him with a wink.

He went the long way to the shop, walking through the street fair where people were selling Christmas-y goods. There was even a group of carol singers dressed in Victorian garb, holding candles that glowed in the gathering dark. He walked through the crowd, the smell of hot cocoa wafting through the air, watching people bustling about, on the way to see their loved ones. 

John knew he should feel like one of them, going home to the person he loved, even if it wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined. The problem was he couldn’t stop thinking about the mistletoe. He kept returning to his daydream about Sherlock underneath it, kissing him soundly, his lean body pressed up against John’s. It crowded his thoughts, made the happiness he felt bittersweet.

When John got back into the flat, it appeared as though Sherlock hadn't moved. Rolling his eyes, John headed into the loo and turned on the shower. He took a little more time getting ready than usual, shaving closely, putting on aftershave and a little product in his hair. He went upstairs and put on the jeans that Sherlock had made him wear once to “distract” a bartender at a gay club for a case, and had been sitting in the back of his closet ever since. He also pulled on is nicest white button down, with a dark green jumper over it.

As John walked down the stairs, he glanced over at Sherlock, whose head poked up to look at him briefly.

“Only one hour left,” he said pointedly. He went into the kitchen and started heating up the wine on the stove, adding spices, brandy and sugar to it. Mrs. Hudson had already brought some of the dishes upstairs, so there wasn’t much else left to do.

When he glanced over at the living room, Sherlock was no longer on the sofa and the loo door was closed. John smirked, shaking his head. Sherlock might try to feign nonchalance, but he actually loved Christmas and being surrounded by the people who cared about him.

He busied himself, making sure everything was ready. It took him a while to actually clean the kitchen table of any noxious experiments, putting them on a side table and disinfecting the surface. Once that was done, he started to get the tableware and wine glasses out of the cupboard.

“Happy Christmas, John.”

John flinched, turning around as Mycroft slid into view, holding a very expensive bottle of scotch.

John nodded sternly before turning back to his task. He had barely spoken to Mycroft in the last year, but it wasn’t unlike him to show up unannounced.

He heard Mycroft sigh as he walked toward him. “Still angry at me, I see.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” John set the forks down on the counter with a clatter.

Mycroft shook his head disapprovingly, as if John were a toddler in a tantrum. “I had no choice but to send him to Siberia. He would have driven himself mad in prison, you know that.”

“So you sent him to certain death instead. That was much better,” John said wryly.

“He didn’t go to his death in the end, _obviously_. It’s been years, John. Holding onto anger isn’t healthy.”

John rolled his eyes. “How do you know he would be called back in time? He might have already been undercover when—”

“Do you have a date this evening, John?” Mycroft interrupted.

John scowled up at him. “No,” he said curtly. “Why?”

Mycroft tilted his head, his eyes sweeping down John’s body.

“Your shoes,” Mycroft said, the corners of his mouth curving upward.

“What about my shoes?” John felt completely exposed, and he didn’t like it. He crossed his arms over his chest.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen, scowling. “What are you doing here?”

“Happy Christmas.” Mycroft held out the scotch. Sherlock raised an eyebrow as he walked past him, but he didn't take the bottle.

John set the plates on the table, looking at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He was wearing a deep wine-red shirt and a black suit, and his hair was tousled in a way that John now knew was artfully done, not accidental. He looked beautiful. But then, he always did.

“I can’t stay long,” Mycroft added. “Pressing affairs of state. The president-elect of America is about to announce his chief of staff, who is definitely being paid off by Putin. They aren’t even trying to hide it. This, of course, after his first three picks, who were far worse, turned him down. The man is like a plague.”

“I still don’t see why you didn’t rig the election against him, surely you could have done that,” Sherlock remarked.

“As I told you before, we didn’t think that he could possibly win,” Mycroft huffed.

“Hold on a second. You didn’t even know we don’t have a king, but you know about the president-elect of America?” John said incredulously.

Sherlock shrugged. “The royal family of England has no effect on the world one way or another. Unfortunately, _he_ does.”

“Yoo hoo. Happy Christmas,” Mrs. Hudson called as she entered the room, holding the Christmas goose.

Her smile disappeared when she noticed Mycroft. “Mycroft. What are you doing here?”

“As I was just saying—” Mycroft began.

“You have to leave because you are very busy and important, we know,” Sherlock interrupted. “John, is the spiced wine ready?”

“Er. Yes,” John said.

“I’ll be off, then,” Mycroft said. “I’ll just leave the scotch.”

“Bye-bye,” Sherlock said over his shoulder, pouring two glasses of the wine.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, putting the scotch on the table before he swept off.

“I’ll go down and get the rest,” Mrs. Hudson said, leaving after him.

“Here,” Sherlock said, handing John one of the glasses.

“Cheers,” John said, clinking their glasses together.

Sherlock’s gaze swept down John’s body as he sipped from his glass, and John couldn’t help noticing how his lips were wine-slick, just a bit reddened. He bit his bottom lip, trying not to imagine what it would feel like to sweep his tongue over those lips.

“You’re wearing the jeans from the case with the embezzler at the nightclub,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah,” John admitted, feeling his face flush a little.

“They look…”

“Silly?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly. John cocked his head, watching him, and he noticed there was a tiny bit of fluff on Sherlock’s collar.

“Hold still.” John moved half a step closer, reaching up to pick the fluff off Sherlock’s shirt. His fingers brushed the smooth skin on Sherlock’s throat as he did so, which sent a thrill down his spine.

“John,” Sherlock said, his voice low.

“Hmm?” John made himself meet Sherlock’s gaze, realizing how close together they were standing. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, and just a bit darker than usual.

“I…” Sherlock started to say.

“Happy Christmas!” Molly’s singsong voice broke the spell. Lestrade walked into the room with her, carrying two bottles of wine.

John closed his eyes, stepping back reluctantly. “Happy Christmas!” he replied. He saw Sherlock take another large gulp of wine out of the corner of his eye.

Lestrade went right over to Sherlock and gave him a hug. “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.” He shook John’s hand. “John.”

“Gifts?” Molly said, holding up a bag.

“Tree,” John said, tilting his head over toward the living room.

“Wow, you two actually have a tree this year, well done,” Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder.

“It’s been a while since we felt like celebrating,” John said honestly.

Sherlock looked at him sharply, a note of concern in his eyes.

“Want some spiced wine?” John asked, ignoring the look and picking up the ladle.

“Sure,” Lestrade said.

Mrs. Hudson reappeared, holding her Christmas pudding.

“Need me to help bring anything else from downstairs?” John asked.

“No, dear, everything’s here.”

“Please tuck in, then, everyone. Plates and cutlery are on the counter.”

 

 

* * *

A few hours later, everyone was fed and a bit tipsy, and they were all sitting in the living room listening to Sherlock playing “Silent Night” on the violin. It wasn’t snowing, but there was a light frost on the window, a fire was crackling in the hearth, and the lights were twinkling in the dim light. Molly was sitting in Lestrade’s lap, wearing fake antlers (because, as usual, Sherlock had refused to wear them). Lestrade whispered something in her ear, and she giggled.

John was nursing a glass of the scotch Mycroft had brought, figuring it would be a waste to bin it out of spite. He definitely had a healthy buzz going, and the fact that Sherlock was playing violin gave him an excuse to stare unabashedly at him. There was something sensual about the lines of Sherlock’s shoulders as he played, the tilt of his head, the way his fingers caressed the strings. Sherlock was a musician, there was no way about it. He seemed to become a part of the music as he played, and it was amazing to behold.

Everyone clapped when Sherlock finished the song. Sherlock bowed his head slightly, and immediately started another.

After the first few notes, John knew exactly what it was. He settled back into his chair, letting the sound of the lone violin wash over him. He felt at peace for the first time in a long time, a kind of peace that he had never thought he’d find after everything with Mary.

Sherlock eventually opened his eyes, looking directly at John. His surroundings melted away, and it was as if the two of them were the only ones in the room, as if Sherlock were playing just for him. His eyes were mesmerizingly dark and stormy grey, and his pupils were wide in the dim light. His pale skin was ethereal, contrasting with the wine silk shirt, and his body shifted, moving lithely with the music.

When Sherlock finished the piece, the room was silent for a long moment.

“That’s beautiful,” Molly said eventually, slurring her words slightly. “What is it?”

“Lo, how a rose e’er blooming,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“John’s favorite Christmas song.” Sherlock proclaimed matter-of-factly.

Everyone looked at John, and he felt himself flush, taking another big gulp of his scotch to hide his face.

Molly got up, wobbling a bit on her feet as she walked toward the kitchen.

“More wine, anyone?” she asked, stopping briefly at the dividing line between the kitchen and the living room.

“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. “Look.”

“What?” Molly frowned, her Christmas jumper slightly off one shoulder.

“You’re right under the mistletoe,” John said.

“Well, then.” Lestrade stood up from his seat, straightening his tweed coat with mock-flourish.

“Oh no, you don’t—” Molly started to say, her eyes wide.

“Oh, yes I do,” Lestrade took her face in both hands and kissed her, to Mrs. Hudson’s delight. It wasn’t a quick kiss, either, especially when Lestrade dipped her.

“Okay, okay, get a room,” John called out good-naturedly, pouring himself some more scotch. He glanced at Sherlock, who was watching them with a slightly peeved expression.

“I just might, mate,” Lestrade called over his shoulder.

Eventually he put Molly back on her feet, and she looked flushed, but happy.

“Right. Er. Right. What was I doing, again?” she asked, still a bit wobbly.

“Getting more wine, dear. Get me some, too, will you?” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling broadly.

Sherlock started to play a more jaunty tune, and everyone refilled their glasses. Eventually, about an hour later, the evening was coming to a close.

“Good going, by the way,” John said under his breath to Mrs. Hudson as Lestrade and Molly went into the hall to get their coats.

“What, dear?” Mrs. Hudson patted John’s hand.

“The mistletoe. You put it up, right?” John prompted.

Mrs. Hudson cocked her head, glancing over at Sherlock. He was fiddling with his violin, looking out the window.

“No,” she said thoughtfully, “It wasn’t me.”

John frowned, but before he could prod her further, Lestrade and Molly appeared in front of him, coats on. “Okay, we’re off,” Lestrade said happily, his eyes only for Molly. “Happy Christmas, John.”

“Greg, Molly.” John smiled, shaking both their hands.

“Thank you for having us,” Molly said.

Mrs. Hudson put her glass in the sink. “I’ll help clean up in the morning, dears.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Happy Christmas,” John said.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Lestrade called back into the living room, but Sherlock seemed lost in his own thoughts.

Once everyone was gone, John piled most of the dishes into the kitchen for the morning. Mrs. Hudson’s Ella Fitzgerald records were playing, and she was partaking of her “herbal soothers,” judging by the smell wafting upward.

Sherlock was still at the window, his violin now in its case, his hands in his pockets. John sighed, looking up again at the blasted mistletoe.

Mrs. Hudson hadn’t put it up, so…it had to have been Sherlock. Sherlock had put mistletoe up in their flat. Why?

 _You know why_ , a voice inside his head said. But maybe he just wanted Molly and Lestrade to finally get together, the original reason he’d given a few days before. It wasn’t exactly Sherlock’s normal _modus operandi_ to play matchmaker, though. And Sherlock never did anything without a purpose.

That left only one explanation.

Downing the last of his scotch in one gulp, John walked slowly toward the living room, pausing directly underneath the beam.

He waited, looking at the line of Sherlock’s shoulders against the dark sky beyond the window, the fire crackling in the background.

Eventually, John broke the silence. “How did you know that’s my favorite Christmas song?”

Sherlock didn’t turn around. “I just do. Just as I know countless other things about you— so many things that I had to add another room in my mind palace to contain them all.”

John’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t really the reply he'd been expecting, and it made him realize how much Sherlock had been holding back. There was so much they had avoided saying, so much tiptoeing around each other in the past year. He was done. He was so far beyond done, he couldn’t believe it had taken him so long to see it. It had been seven long years, and he _ached_ for Sherlock in a way he’d never ached for anyone before.

“Sherlock, please turn around.”

Sherlock obeyed, his eyes widening when he saw where John was standing. The blinking light from the mantelpiece lit up his face in green, pink and purple, and his eyes seemed even more luminescent than usual.

“You’re. You’re under the...”

“Yep.” John smacked his lips together on the last syllable.

Sherlock hesitated. “John.”

“You’re the one who put it up, not Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock’s lower lip wobbled. “I…”

John stared him down. “Sherlock, get over here.”

“ _John_.” Sherlock’s voice was so quiet, so unsure.

“Get. Over. Here,” John said, pointing in front of him.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock walked over to him. “You don’t want to do this,” he said.

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t want to do.”

“I tricked you into it, I—”

“I’m not going to argue with you about this—”

“You’ve been drinking, you—”

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” John interrupted forcefully. “Do you want to kiss me?”

Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes darting down to John’s mouth. “Yes.” His voice was deep, quiet, and powerful.

“Then shut up,” John said. He slid his hands around Sherlock’s waist, just as he had imagined, and before he could lose his nerve, kissed him.

At first the kiss was close-lipped, but Sherlock tilted his head, leaning into it. There was a surprising click of teeth, but then John took control, licking into Sherlock’s mouth. He tasted of spices and wine, his lips lush and soft. Sherlock kissed him eagerly, as though he were out of practice (which he probably was), and with a hunger John shared on a visceral, primal level. He felt like he was hyperventilating, because waiting to kiss the love of your life for seven years was far too long.

After a while, John realized that Sherlock was trembling. He pulled back a bit to make sure he was all right.

“Please don’t stop,” Sherlock whispered against his lips, his hands fisting in John’s jumper.

John felt giddy, pulling Sherlock flush against him and kissing him again. He sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip, just a little, and Sherlock opened his mouth wider in a gasp. John fisted his hand in Sherlock’s curls, snogging him deeply, pouring everything he felt into the kiss.

After a while, John paused, kissing lightly along Sherlock’s jaw. Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his cheeks flushed beautifully. “I know the whole point was to snog under the mistletoe, which I would love to keep doing forever,” John said between kisses. “But do you think we could slow down for a bit and talk about this?”

“I—yes.” Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open, and he was swaying a little on his feet. John grinned, taking his hand and leading him toward the sofa. He sat down, pulling Sherlock down next to him, close enough that their knees were touching. He looked slightly nervous, despite the fact that John had just been snogging him senseless.

“Hey,” John said softly, squeezing his hand. “It's all right. I just don't want us to jump into bed with each other before we talk about this.”

“Bed?” Sherlock perked up a little, looking hopeful.

John's heart pounded in his ears. “I meant figuratively, but…let's come back to that.”

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips. 

“You did it for a reason,” John said, trying to get his thoughts back in track. “The mistletoe.”

Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. “I didn't think…I couldn’t tell if you wanted this. You hadn’t dated anyone since you moved back in, but I still couldn’t tell if you wanted...I thought maybe I could force the issue, so to speak, by putting it up.” Sherlock paused. “You avoided it judiciously for days, so I thought I had my answer.”

“That's why you have been in such a sulk,” John said with dawning comprehension.

Sherlock averted his eyes, looking embarrassed, but he nodded. “But then you came down tonight, wearing those jeans, and the shoes, and I started to hope again.”

“Okay, what is it with my shoes, exactly? Mycroft mentioned them too.”

“They’re your date shoes,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “And I was certain you weren’t trying to pull Mrs. Hudson.”

John barked out a laugh. He’d never realized he wore specific shoes for dates, but that was exactly the kind of thing Sherlock would know about him.

“You want to ask something else,” Sherlock prompted.

“Yeah.” John braced himself, pressing his lips together. “Are you sure you want this? With me?”

Sherlock’s forehead wrinkled. “I should think it’s obvious.”

 _It wasn’t,_ John thought. “Not just tonight, though, right?” John needed things to be clear between them, because there was no going back from this.

“No.” Sherlock looked surprised, as if that hadn’t even crossed his mind. “Not just tonight. I want everything _,_ John, everything you'll give me, today, tomorrow, fifty years from now.”

John’s heart fluttered in his chest. “You do?”

Sherlock brought John’s hand to his lips, kissing his palm, a gesture so tender that John couldn’t quite breathe.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” John managed to say.

“It’s a yes. The real question is...are you sure you want _me_? After everything that’s happened?” Sherlock’s lower lip wobbled minutely. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“What ever is, with the two of us?” John reached up to cup his cheek, brushing his thumb over Sherlock’s lips. “But it’s worth it. All of it. All the pain, all the years apart…it’s worth it to me. I want to be with you too, so much. Today, tomorrow, fifty years from now. Because you’re the fucking love of my life, actually.”

There. He’d finally said it.

Sherlock sniffled slightly, shaking his head, as if he didn’t quite believe it. “John…”

“It’s all right,” John said, unable to think of anything else to say. He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s, and Sherlock sighed.

“I never expected to fall in love, you know. I thought I was incapable of it,” Sherlock said quietly.

“I didn’t think you were either, at first,” John said.

“What changed your mind?”

 _The way you looked at me when I had a bomb strapped to my chest. The sadness in your voice when you said goodbye to me at Bart’s. How you came back from the dead, after I begged you to. The way you looked at me during the wedding, and the fact that you relapsed right after. How you killed Magnussen, sacrificing yourself for the life you thought I wanted. The way you looked at me that day on the Tarmac, like your heart was breaking_ , John thought. “You were never the heartless bastard you thought yourself to be,” was all he said aloud. “Not even close.”

Sherlock’s eyes were glittering, and he pressed his lips to John’s again. The kiss was even more passionate than before, and Sherlock eventually swung his leg around so that he was sitting on John's lap, which was much better.

He untucked Sherlock’s shirt so that he could skim his fingernails up his spine. Sherlock cupped John’s face with both hands, sipping from his mouth, grinding downward with his hips, and John arched upwards unconsciously. Their clothed cocks brushed against each other, and John felt Sherlock gasp into his mouth.

John was content to keep kissing Sherlock for hours, but Sherlock stopped suddenly, panting. John licked his lips, feeling giddy.

Sherlock mirrored the action. “Can we…”

“Bed?” John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded eagerly.

“It’s not too soon for that?” John asked.

“I’ve been waiting for seven years to suck your cock, I think that’s long enough,” Sherlock said dryly.

John couldn’t breathe; otherwise, he would have laughed uproariously. He’d never expected Sherlock to say something like _that_ with such nonchalance.

John had to swallow a couple of times before he could manage to croak, “Yes, please.”

Sherlock huffed a laugh, and John giggled along with him, until they were both giggling as if they were teenagers snogging on the couch for the first time.

Sherlock swung his leg off of John and stood up, albeit a bit unsteadily. John took his outstretched hand, stood up and immediately pulled Sherlock into another deep kiss.

Sherlock mumbled something against his lips.“Hmm?” John asked, pushing a curl out of Sherlock’s eyes.

“Take me to bed,” Sherlock said, his eyes dark.

“With pleasure." John smiled, leading him down the hall to Sherlock’s room.

When they reached the bed, Sherlock pushed him down to a sitting position.

“Sherlock—” John started to say. Sherlock pressed his finger to John’s lips, a flash of mischief in his eyes, as he sank to a kneeling position on the ground. He smoothed his hands up John’s thighs, biting his lower lip, unabashedly eyeing John’s still-clothed cock.

“These trousers have been torturing me all night,” Sherlock said, unbuttoning John’s fly.

“How so?” John arched upward as Sherlock licked a stripe up the front of his pants.

“Don’t be coy,” Sherlock said. He nuzzled John’s cock through his pants, which was a sight John had seen in his dreams, but never thought he’d see in real life. “You know why I made you wear them the first time.”

Sherlock kissed his cock through pants, and John felt like he was going to faint.

“Sit up a second,” Sherlock said, and John obeyed. Sherlock pulled his pants and trousers down enough that John’s cock sprung free. Sherlock paused, licking his lips again, and he met John’s gaze.

John reached out to card his hand through Sherlock’s hair, massaging his head, as he’d wanted to do so badly the other day.

“What?” he asked.

“I just—you have no idea how long…” Sherlock said haltingly.

“I know,” John said, because he did. He’d been imagining this moment for so long, and now that it was finally here—he was about to have sex with Sherlock—he felt completely overwhelmed.

“I might not be very good at this,” Sherlock said, his eyes glinting in the low light. “It’s been quite a while.”

“That’s not possible,” John said earnestly. “I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t even have to touch me and I’d come at this point.”

His lips twitching slightly in amusement, Sherlock reached out and took John’s cock by the base, stroking up it a few times. He leaned in to kiss the head, then enveloped it with his lips, sucking lightly a few times as he continued moving his hand.

“Oh my god,” John said, threading his fingers through Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock bobbed a few times, twisting his hand a bit on the downstroke. He teased the head with his tongue, then took John's cock all the way down his throat until he almost choked, then bobbed some more.

He repeated this for a few minutes until John felt like he was going to pass out, and already felt embarrassingly close to coming.

“Sherlock, going…going to…”

Sherlock just moved faster, eyes boring into John, and John came, shouting Sherlock’s name, clenching his fist in his hair.

He collapsed backward onto the bed, and Sherlock stood up, licking his lips and wiping a bit of come off his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Holy shit,” John gasped.

Sherlock grinned, and started to climb onto the bed, but John realized that—ridiculously—they were both still mostly clothed.

“Hold on,” John said, sitting up, still a bit dizzy, placing a palm on Sherlock’s chest. “I want to see you.”

Sherlock stopped, one knee on the bed, and John reached up with both hands to push his jacket off his shoulders. Sherlock shrugged out of it, letting John work on his buttons. John kissed down his chest as his skin was revealed, wonderingly, and Sherlock’s breath started to come quicker.

When John had all the buttons undone, Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt, and John took him by the shoulders, twisting him down to the bed. He pulled off his own jumper and shirt quickly, throwing them on the ground, not caring if he popped a couple of buttons in the process.

He straddled Sherlock, kissing his pale throat and down his chest, trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s stomach to his belt buckle. As he undid Sherlock’s trousers, he swirled his tongue around one peaked nipple, then the other. Sherlock arched up into him, making a glorious whimpering sound.

John finally got Sherlock’s trousers undone, and pushed them and his pants off and down to the floor. He had to stop for a moment, trailing his fingers down the expanse of skin, still feeling giddy. Sherlock was finally naked, underneath him, completely at his mercy; he trusted him, _wanted_ him, in all the ways he wanted Sherlock.

“John,” Sherlock panted. “Take your trousers off. Please.”

John stood up, pushing his trousers off the rest of the way, and as he did, Sherlock spread his knees in a way that showed exactly what he wanted. John settled in between his legs, and their cocks brushed together. Sherlock’s eyes fell closed and he pulled John to him, moaning lightly, hips arching upward again. John had come too recently to get hard again, but if he had been about fifteen years younger, that would have done it.

He leaned in to kiss Sherlock again, reaching down to take his cock in hand.

“What do you want?” he asked, thumbing the head of Sherlock’s cock once before stroking him again.

“This, just this. A little tighter and slower strokes,” Sherlock breathed. “And kiss me.”

John smiled, stroking him as he asked, and kissed him deeply, with purpose, the way he imagined he’d kiss him every day for the rest of their lives.

Sherlock wrapped his limbs around John, kissing him back. It wasn’t long before he was arching up into John’s hand, his fingernails digging into John’s skin.

Sherlock’s head fell back into the bed. “John,” he gasped. “John, I’m—”

“Yes, yes,” John said, sucking at his throat, starting to stroke him faster. Sherlock arched again, and hot come was spurting all over John’s hand as John stroked him through it.

Sherlock eventually relaxed, his whole body trembling. John kissed both of his eyelids.

“God, I love you,” John whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes opened, slowly, and they were now a light, even grey, like the sea after a storm.

“I love you, too, John.” Sherlock reached up to brush his fingers over John’s cheek.

John’s heart felt like it was going to burst, so he kissed Sherlock again, lightly. It felt like a promise for the future, a wish fulfilled.

After a moment, he leaned back, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s. “I’m going to get something to clean us up, all right?”

Sherlock nodded. John kissed him briefly once more, mostly just because he could. He got up, walking to the ensuite bathroom and washing himself off. He brought a wet cloth back to the bedroom, giving it to Sherlock, who wiped himself off as well. John pulled the covers down, and they both got under them. Sherlock burrowed up against John, his head tucked into John’s neck.

John was starting to drift off when the clock in the hall clanged twelve times.

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock,” John murmured, feeling warm and completely content.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock hummed. “That it is. Good thing I put up the mistletoe, isn’t it?” 

John chuckled sleepily. “God, yes.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the lyrics of “Lo How A Rose E’er Blooming,” John’s favorite Christmas song (in my world, anyway).


End file.
